Jane, please-It is possible to pick a flower andnot trip over the husk,to squat in pure rejoicingwithout looking forwardto the demise of the coffee cupor the shards of your lover, broken on the floor.Eat a sandwich.Walk your dog.Live your life.

Potential Energy

The seeds (sealed in a pocketsquashed in a small potwith spongy, thirsty dirtand simple instructions for planting,a gesture, an idea of green)surprise themselves and sprout.

I wrote both of those poems last year, during a shifting and fruitful time of my life. The first, "An Open Letter to Jane Kenyon," was written as I was reading Jane Kenyon: Collected Poems. I remember very clearly being overtaken by both the beauty of her imagery and the depth of her depression. Jane Kenyon did suffer from depression, and to be clear, I do not mean to make light of that. Dealing with depression myself, I know that it does not allow the luxury of a choice of perspective. Thus, the poem has always felt awkward to me in that "What do you mean, writing to a depressed poet, telling her to stop being depressed? That's really insensitive!" kind of way...and still, something was there that I knew had truth.